CHAPTER XII.

FAREWELL.

The day of departure was here, bringing with it Ella's last afternoon at Heron Dyke for several weeks, or it might be, for several months to come. Her uncle's will in the matter, combined with Mrs. Carlyon's, had conquered her own. Dr. Jago added his influence in the shape of a warning, that his patient must on no account be irritated by contradiction or he would not be answerable for the consequences.

Ella felt that there was no other course open to her than to yield; but she cried many bitter tears in secret. She did not want to leave home at all just now, although ten days or a fortnight in Paris might have proved a pleasant change. But to go away for a whole winter, and so far away too, was certainly something that she had never contemplated. It was true that Mr. Denison seemed better in health, much better; but, for all that, she had a presentiment which she could not get rid of, that if she left him now she should never see him again in this world. Still, she had to obey her uncle's wishes.

And now the last afternoon was here, and waning quickly. She had bidden farewell to Maria Kettle, to Lady Cleeve, and all other friends; she had taken her last walk along the shore, her last look at the garden and grounds, each familiar spot had been visited in turn; and it seemed to her as though she were bidding them farewell for ever. She and Mrs. Carlyon were going up to London by the evening train; they would spend a couple of days in town and then cross by the Dover boat.

Through the leaden-paned windows of Mr. Denison's sitting-room the rays of the October sun shone wanly, lighting up a point of panelling here and there, or lending a momentary freshness, a forgotten grace, to one or other of the faded portraits on the walls. As the sick man sat there in his big leathern chair, his dim eyes wandered now and again to the motto of his family where, lighted by the sun, it shone out in colours blood-red and golden high up in the central window. There was a ring of worldly pride in the words, of the strength and the glory of possession. "What I have I hold." How much longer would he, the living head of the house, continue to hold anything of that which earth had given him? Already the cold airs of the grave blew about him: already he seemed to hear the dread words, "Ashes to ashes," while from the sexton's clay-stained fingers a little earth was crumbled on to his coffin lid. "What I have I hold." Vain mockery! when the grim Captain whispers in your ear, and bids you follow him.

Ella sat on a low hassock at her uncle's knee. One of her hands was tightly grasped in his, while his other hand stroked her hair fondly. It was a gaunt and bony hand, and seemed all unfitted for such loving usages. They spoke to each other in low tones, with frequent pauses between. To any stranger there, who could have heard their voices but not their words, it would have seemed as if they were discussing some trivial topic of every-day life. But both Ella and the Squire had determined that they would keep a strict guard over their feelings. Neither of them would let the other see the emotions at work below, though each might guess at their existence. Dr. Jago had warned the young lady to make her parting as quiet a one as possible: excitement of any kind was hurtful to his patient. Mr. Denison's proud hard nature could not entirely change itself, even at a time like the present; besides which, he wanted to make the separation as little distressing to Ella as might be. It maybe that he felt that if she were to break down at the last moment and betray much emotion, his own veneer of stoicism might not prove of much avail.

"I think, Uncle Gilbert, you understand clearly the arrangements made for our communicating with each other while I am away?" said Ella.

"I think so, my pretty one. You can go over them again if you like."

"I will write to you once a week, and send you a telegram as often as we leave one place for another. Hubert Stone will write to me in your name every Monday to save you from fatigue; and you must write sometimes yourself. Should your health change in the slightest degree for the worse, he will telegraph to me without a moment's delay."

"That's it: I shan't forget," said Mr. Denison. "What with this telegraphing, and one thing or another, it will seem as if you were no farther away than the next village."

"I shall feel that we are very far apart," said Ella. "You forget what a long time it takes to travel from Italy to Heron Dyke."

"Nothing like the time it used to take when I was a young spark. I remember when I went the grand tour as it was called--but there, there, we have something else to talk about now. Anyhow, railroads are a wonderful invention."

There were twenty things on Ella's tongue that she would have liked to speak of, but that it might be more wise to refrain from. Dr. Jago's warning words rarely left her thoughts.

"Be sure to wrap yourself up warmly when you go out in the carriage, uncle."

"Ay, ay, dearie, I won't forget."

"I shall come back to you the first week in the new year. Two months will be quite long enough to be away from home."

"We have agreed to see about that, you know, my lassie. I will send you word when I feel that I want you, and then you will come. Not before, I think--not before."

It was a topic that Ella dared not pursue further. She kissed his hand with tears in her eyes. He patted her cheek lovingly.

"Oh! why does he persist so strongly in sending me away?" she thought. "Hubert let fall a word--an inadvertent one, I think--the other night, that they feared I should be melancholy in this gloomy old house in the winter. It is gloomy now, but I could have put up with that very well."

"If I get on as famously for the next month or two as I have for the last three weeks," said the Squire, "I shall be able to drive to the station and meet you when you come home. And then when the sun comes out warm next spring, I can take your arm, and we can walk again in the peach alley as we used to do. Why not?"

Was there something wistful in his voice, as he spoke thus, that caused Ella to glance up quickly into his face.

"Are you sure, uncle, that you are really as much stronger and better as you say you are?" she asked quickly, and with ill-concealed anxiety.

One of his old suspicious flashes came into his eyes, but it died away next moment.

"Am I sure, dearie? Why--why, what makes you ask that? You can see for yourself that I'm better. Yes, Jago's making another man of me--another man."

"Tell me the truth, uncle," she exclaimed passionately, "_why_ is it that you are driving me away? I am sure there is some special reason for it."

For a moment or two the Squire did not answer: his face was working with some inward excitement, his fingers, stroking the hand he held, trembled visibly.

"The house is getting uncanny, child," he said at last, "and I won't suffer my pretty one to be in it through the dark months. Before another winter comes round, perhaps the mystery will be solved; I hope it will be. Any way, we shall by that time have become more reconciled to it."

"But, uncle----"

"No objection, my dear one. You have never made any to my will yet, and you must not begin now. Understand, child: I am sending you away for _the best_; the best for you and for me; and you must be guided by me implicitly, as you ever have been."

Ella sighed--and would not let him see her tears.

The yellow sunlight faded and vanished from the gloomy room, the old portraits on the walls shrank farther back into the twilight of their frames and were lost to view, the log on the hearth crackled and glowed more redly bright as darkness crept on apace, and still those two sat hand in hand, speaking a few words now and then, but mostly silent. At length the moment of departure came, the carriage was at the door, and Mrs. Carlyon entered, ready for travelling.

The Squire grasped the back of his chair with one hand; he was trembling in every limb. Mrs. Carlyon bade him goodbye quietly and without fuss. He kissed her, and held her hand.

"Gertrude," he said, "into your hands I commit my one earthly treasure. I charge you with the care of it. Never forget!"

Ella clung to him, and laid her head upon his breast. His rugged features worked convulsively. He lifted her face tenderly between his hands and kissed her several times.

"Let me stay with you, uncle. Why drive me away?" she said imploringly.

For a moment there came into his eyes a gleam of agony terrible to see: it was a look which Ella never forgot.

"No--no--it must not be: I am doing for the best," he repeated, in a hoarse whisper; "I tell it you. Farewell, my sweetest and best--farewell. Go now--go now," he whispered, as he sank into his chair and pointed to the door.

Hubert Stone, looking every inch a gentleman, attended them to the station, sitting on the box with Barnet. Higson went inside with the ladies. At the station, Ella took Hubert aside for a private word.

"You will be sure not to forget your instructions, Hubert?"

"I shall not forget one of them, Miss Ella," was his answer. "You may rely upon that."

"You must watch my uncle narrowly. Should you see the approach of any change in him, telegraph to me. Question your friend, Dr. Jago, continually of his state. Say nothing to my uncle. I will take the responsibility if you send for me. You will always know where we are, for I shall keep you well informed."

The young man bowed. He was afraid to let his eyes meet hers: she might perhaps have fathomed the burning secret that lay half hidden there--his passionate love.

"I trust you, Hubert; remember that: I have only you to trust to now at Heron Dyke. And now, goodbye."

Hubert clasped the hand she extended to him. And the next moment he assisted her into the carriage.

"Ah, if I might dare to think it would ever be!" he groaned, watching the train as it puffed out of the station. "And, I do think it may, I fear, more than is wholesome for me; for the hope is little short of madness."

At that time the county of Norfolk had been startled from its propriety by the ill-judged action of a young lady belonging to the family of one of its magnates. She had married one of her father's men-servants. Hubert Stone lit his cigar, and quitted the station to return home, thinking of this. Strange to say, he saw in it some encouragement for himself.

"If Miss G. can stoop to marry a low fellow like that, surely there's nothing so very outrageous in my aspiring to Ella Winter! I am well educated; I can behave as a gentleman; I am good-looking. There's nothing against me but birth--and fortune. She will have enough of the latter if she comes into Heron Dyke--and if Jago's clever, I expect she will. Any way her fortune will be a fair one, for the Squire must have saved hoards of money. She can well afford to dispense with money in whomsoever she may marry: and if she can only be brought to overlook the disadvantage of my birth----"

"Good-evening, Mr. Stone. And how's the Squire?"

Hubert's dreams were thus cut short. He answered the question mechanically, and stopped to talk to the chance acquaintance who had accosted him.

Meanwhile Ella and Mrs. Carlyon were speeding London-ward as fast as the Great Eastern Railway could carry them. At Cambridge there was a stoppage for two or three minutes. Suddenly Mrs. Carlyon uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Ella, look! Look there! that is surely Mr. Conroy. He is looking for a seat."

Ella bent forward. The next moment Mr. Conroy recognised them. He advanced to the carriage window, and raised his hat.

"Who, in the name of wonder, expected to see you here?" exclaimed Mrs. Carlyon, as she held out her hand. "I thought you were in Ashantee."

"It is one of my privileges to turn up in unexpected places," he answered. Then he shook hands with Ella and inquired after Mr. Denison.

"Were you looking for a place?--are you going to town?" asked Mrs. Carlyon. "If you don't mind travelling with unprotected females, there's plenty of room here."

And, thanking her, into the carriage stepped Edward Conroy, with the frank look and smile that Ella remembered so well.

"Well, if he is not a cool one!" thought the discerning Higson to herself. "I'd not mind answering for it that in some way he got to know Miss Ella would be here, and came down from town on purpose to meet her. I can read it in his eyes. There's no answering for what these venturesome young gents will do!"

"And will you kindly explain to us, Mr. Conroy, what business you have to be in England when you ought to be sketching black people out in Africa?"

"Within twenty-four hours of the time I was to have sailed, I received a telegram informing me that my father was dangerously ill. Under the circumstances, I could not sail; I had to go to him instead. I stayed some time with him, left him better, and then found that Dempster had been sent in my place."

"And a very fortunate thing too."

Conroy laughed.

"You lack enterprise, Mrs. Carlyon. I am afraid that you would never do for a special correspondent. Do you expect to make a long stay in London this time?" he asked, turning to Ella.

"We intend starting for the Continent the day after tomorrow," answered Mrs. Carlyon. "You had better come and dine with us tomorrow evening: there will be no one but ourselves and Mr. Bootle."

"I shall be very happy to do so," replied Conroy. "What place are you going to make your head-quarters while you are away?"

"I had some thoughts of San Remo, but we shall probably be birds of passage and not stay long in any one place."

Conroy saw that Ella was silent, and guessed the parting with her uncle had been a sad one. What he did not know was, how sweet his presence and company were to her. She had been thinking of him that very day--thinking of him sadly as of one whom she might never see again; and now he was here, sitting opposite to her. What rare chance had brought him?--She did not talk much, she was satisfied to hear his voice and see his face; at present she craved nothing more. The journey she so much dreaded had all at once been invested with a charm, with an unexpected sweetness, which she never tried to analyse: enough for her that it was there.

Conroy saw the ladies into their carriage at the London terminus, and bade them goodbye till the following evening. Then he lighted a cigar and set out to walk to his rooms in the Adelphi. He was in a musing mood, debating some question with himself as he walked along.

"Shall I tell Mrs. Carlyon a certain secret, or shall I not?" he thought. "Would she keep it to herself? No, no; better be on the safe side," he presently decided: "and the time is hardly ripe to tell it to anyone. What would Squire Denison say if it were whispered to him?"

On this very evening, while these ladies were on their way to London, a strange thing happened at Heron Dyke.

It was about eight o'clock. Fitch the saddler had come up from Nullington about some little matter of business, and Aaron Frost sent one of the housemaids to fetch him a certain whip that was hanging up in the hall. As Martha left the room with her candle she met her fellow-servant, Ann, and the latter turned to accompany her. The girls never cared to go about the big house singly after dark. They went along chattering merrily, and thinking of anything rather than unpleasant subjects. Martha was repeating a ludicrous story just told in the kitchen by the saddler, and could hardly tell it for laughing.

As in many old mansions, round three sides of the entrance-hall there ran an oaken gallery, some twenty feet above the ground, from which various doors gave access to different parts of the house. This gallery was reached from the hall by a broad and shallow flight of stairs.

"How cold this place always strikes one," exclaimed Ann, as they entered the hall.

"It would want many a dozen of candles to light it up properly," remarked Martha.

Having found the whip, they turned to retrace their steps, when Martha, happening to glance up at the gallery, gave utterance to a low cry, and grasped her companion by the arm. Ann's eyes involuntarily followed the same direction, and a similar cry of intense terror burst from her lips.

They saw the face of the missing girl--the face of Katherine Keen, gazing down upon them from the gallery. The face was very pale; white as that of the dead. The figure was leaning over the balustrade of the gallery, and its eyes gazed down into theirs with a sad, fixed, weary look. It seemed to be clothed in something dark, pulled partly over its head and grasped at the throat by the white, slender fingers. For fully half a minute, the two girls stood and stared up at the figure in sheer incapability, and the figure looked sadly down upon them. At length it moved--it turned--it took a step forward, and the servants, both of them, distinctly heard the sound of a faint far-away sigh. Could it be possible that the figure meant to come downstairs? The spell that had held the girls was broken; with low smothered cries of terror they turned and fled, clinging to each other.

How the one dropped the whip and the other the candle, and how they at length gained the kitchen, and burst into it with their terror-stricken faces and their unhappy tale, they never knew. Fitch the saddler gazed in open-eyed amazement, as well he might; the deaf and stolid cook looked in from the cooking-kitchen--in which congenial place she preferred to sit, surrounded by her saucepans.

The girls sobbed forth all the dismal story. Their mistress, Mrs. Stone, flung her apron over her head as she listened, and sank back in her chair in dismay equal to theirs. But old Aaron was so indignant, so scandalised, at what he called their senseless folly, that he lost his breath in a rage, and gave each of them a month's warning on the spot.

END OF VOL. I.

________________________________________________________ BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.

_Y. S. & Sons_.